


Roma Fade

by Vita_S_West



Category: Endeavour (TV), Inspector Morse & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drunken Kissing, Drunken Shenanigans, Love/Hate, M/M, Strong Language, disaster children are let outside without thurday's supervision
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22039429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vita_S_West/pseuds/Vita_S_West
Summary: "Morse was already two drinks down, considering a third may be necessary to sufficiently drown his sorrows, when the pub’s open door ushered in cool night air, startling him from his musings on his own miseries. He looked up and even if he could have stifled his full-throated groan, Morse wouldn’t have. In the doorway was Ronnie Box."
Relationships: Ronnie Box/Endeavour Morse
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	Roma Fade

**Author's Note:**

> Set during Series 6. i may or may not have written draft 1 while listening to "i knew you were trouble when you walked in".

Morse was already two drinks down, considering a third may be necessary to sufficiently drown his sorrows, when the pub’s open door ushered in cool night air, startling him from his musings on his own miseries. He looked up and even if he could have stifled his full-throated groan, Morse wouldn’t have. 

In the doorway was Ronnie Box. Tucked into a soft leather corner booth, Morse tried to recede into the shadows in the hope that his dealings with Box stayed limited to the misfortune of sharing a workplace and, briefly, a bar. That was unfortunate enough in his opinion. 

Morse pretended not to notice him swagger up to the bar, and lean on it with an exaggerated machismo, undoubtedly meant to flaunt his stupid muscles. The bar was too nice for him, Morse decided resentfully. With an oak entrance, copper accents and a big curvy bar as the centrepiece, why did he have to come _here_?

 _Hopefully he’ll find a bird or a dart game to entertain himself, something that won’t make him stand_ near _me._

Morse turned back to his beer for a long swig and when he looked back to Box’s spot at the bar, he was gone. 

Morse smiled for himself. Relief mingled with a distant buzz that was beginning to assume the vague spectre of drunkenness, when a shape appeared in front of him. 

“Drinking by yourself, are you?”

Morse’s stomach plummeted and he slowly, filled with more dread and discontent than when he looked at a body in Debryn’s morgue, looked into the smirking face of Ronnie Box. 

_Smug bastard._

“Sir,” Morse said dryly. He really needed that third drink now. 

“Don’t that get wet when you drink?” Box said, his finger pointed dangerously close to Morse’s mouth. 

Morse pulled his head away as if Box’s hand were a poisoned knife. He was so annoyed it took him a moment to realize Box was pointing at his moustache, not his lips. 

Morse slung a look of contempt at the other man and said coolly, “Difficult for it not to.”

“Not very hygienic, is it,”

“Still more so than you.”

Box laughed, a sound that reminded Morse of a fork in a blender. Then, because Box never went where he was wanted, he slid into the booth across from Morse. He stretched his legs out, knocking into Morse’s feet. When Morse straightened, pulling his feet away, Box’s legs seemed to act like a gas, filling the empty space until his feet came again to rest on Morse’s ankles. 

“By all means, sit,” Morse said in the same voice he used to inform people their loved one had been murdered. 

“Yes, I figured you’d say that. Lonely tosser that you are.”

Morse wished he were lonely in that moment. “Anything I can help you with? Some advise for future murder investigations?” he said haughtily. _Where to find some basic human decency? Perhaps a definition thereof?_

“Nah, none of that. I’ve got Thursday for all that and the rest. Should I say he’s got me? Bit of an upgrade.” He nodded at Morse for emphasis, an obvious _well, look at me and look at you_.

“Does he get paid extra for babysitting?” Morse said. 

“He didn’t get a bonus to deal with your toffee-nosed prattery.”

“Maybe not, but he got cases solved in a timely manner.”

“Everything about me is timely, mate.”

“I’m not your mate,” Morse spat. 

“No,” Box said slowly as he appraised him, eyes going up and down. While his face and posture exhibited a careless ease, his eyes betrayed an intensity that made Morse think it would be difficult to get rid of him. He looked at him like he wanted something and only Morse could get it. His ankles were still pressed against Morse’s. “You’re not anybody’s mate. Or anybody’s anything, for that matter.”

Morse felt a familiar twinge of inadequacy and anger. It hadn’t been the first time he’d been told as much. It wouldn’t be the last either. “What are you even doing here?”

“Getting a drink and listening to your honeyed tones.”

“You don’t have a drink.”

“And you don’t have honeyed tones. You want one?” he said suddenly. 

“What, honeyed tones?” Morse scoffed. 

“No, you git, a drink?”

“Oh.” For all the possibilities Morse had presupposed for his evening this had certainly not been one of them. “All right,” he said with a shrug, seeing as Box was offering. 

“Good, go get me one too. As your superior and all,” he added when he saw Morse balk in disbelief. 

Morse stared at him, wondering if he should just get up and walk out, rather than spend a penny on Box. 

“No money, huh?” Box said, as if that were Morse’s only complaint. “You’re lucky I’m feeling rich.” From his back pocket he pulled some bills. In doing so, he shifted his ankles knocked into Morse’s, his foot curling around the back of his calf, before he leaned forward to hand over a bill. Morse opened his palm, confusion settling in as he wondered what was going to happen next. Box slapped the money down, his hand landing with such weight that his pinned Morse’s to the table. 

“Keep the change. You look like you need it. You know, for a barber.” He nodded at Morse’s moustache.

It was another full moment before Box released his hand. Morse wandered to the bar, still feeling its heat. 

Morse had drank with Thursday many times over the years. These had been altogether pleasant experiences. If only it were Thursday watching him from his seat rather than Box. This was different and nothing short of bizarre. It was like some absurdist fiction, like Morse had fallen down and landed in Wonderland, only instead of an opium-smoking caterpillar or mad queen, he had found Box and a couple of pints. He’d rather the caterpillar and decapitation.

At least they both had one thing in common in that moment. They both wanted a drink, more than they hated the other, apparently. He returned, placing the drinks on the table without another word. 

“Cheers,” Box said.

“Mm,” said Morse. 

With no other ceremony, they began to drink. 

Box seemed eager to outpace him and Morse was happy enough to let him. The sooner he was too tired or too drunk, the sooner Morse could get rid of him. Still, it wasn’t until they shared a second drink that it occurred to Morse that Box was both bigger than him and had started drinking after him. This was hardly likely to end well, he realized.

Box seemed larger—or was he just closer?—his breath certainly stank of beer. “You always drink this much?”

“Only when company makes it necessary.”

“Hm. You’re almost tolerable this way.”

“You still aren’t.”

Box threw his head back and laughed, offering Morse a good look at his neck and the way the muscles worked. He had slid closer in the booth, Morse realized, as if he didn’t believe in personal space, as if he knew _exactly_ how to get under Morse’s skin. He was close enough to touch. 

“You’re always a real prick, aren’t you?” Box said. He was leaning closer still. Morse could feel the moisture of his breath directly on his face. 

“Same to you, sir,” Morse said, lifting his drink as a salute. He took another gulp, but Box just stared at him, his head tilted slightly. He wasn’t drunk enough, Morse decided. He needed another round. Who knew? Maybe Ronnie Box would grow more tolerable with another drink. 

“You’re used to this then,” Box said as his laugh died away. “Rough treatment, pushing them all away, birds… and the lads. None of them are smart enough for you, huh?”

“You certainly aren’t,” Morse said, pulling himself to his feet. For a second, the entire room swayed, but Morse was no neophyte. He braced his knees and kept a hand on the table until the room sorted itself out. It hardly took a second. “Another drink, sir?” Morse said, holding out his hand, granting Box a nasty smile. 

“Nah, you’ve had enough.”

“Can’t keep up?”

“You need fresh air,” Box said. 

Morse scoffed. “I need another.”

“Come get a fag with me,” Box said, cigarettes already coming out of his pocket. 

Morse stood indecisively, while Box slid out of his seat. 

“Let’s go,” he commanded. 

Morse watched him, trepidation a coiling serpent in his stomach. He let Box walk on. He let Box get to the door and turn back to see if Morse was following. He let a look of confusion and disappointment cross Box’s face. No, there was something more…

“You need a witness,” Morse said, his lips curling, “just to know you’re here?”

Box blinked—rather stupidly in Morse's opinion. He looked like he was doing some very quick thinking, trying to sort out, not just what Morse meant, but Morse himself. It was a moment where Box’s machismo and authority dented then split. Morse could see the wide seam of poorly-cobbled arrogance pull away to reveal insecurity.

For once, he didn't look like some foolish action figure or a boy playing at being a copper. It was the first time Box had ever looked _real_.

Morse savoured it, before swaggering past him, allowing his shoulder to clip Box's and forcing him to hold the door open for him.

Morse stood in the cool air, his shirt sleeves rolled up, feeling the sweat that had formed across his back and forehead for the first time. He hadn’t realized how warm it had been inside. Box came out and stood beside him, his face illuminated by the flame of his match, and then more faintly, the burning end of his cigarette. _He almost looks tolerable to look at with the lights low,_ Morse thought. 

“You like things your way, don’t you?” Box grumbled after a long drag. His eyes burned like the lit cigarette.

“And you don’t?” Morse challenged. 

“You always this contrary?”

“Yes.”

Box barked a laugh. “You have an unwavering honesty, I’ll grant you that. Doesn’t make you any less of a prick, though.”

It was Morse’s turn to laugh. “It bothers you.” No question, just a confirmation. He didn’t even look at Box as he spoke. He stared past him, past the flickering streetlight, into the sky, clouded and obscured.

There was a tension and humidity to it. It wasn't like the sky was just about to open up, but if you were to give it a few hours, something electric and destructive would come down, as if from Zeus himself. 

“Trying to see what makes Fred so foolish over you,” Box said. 

Morse heard his feet shuffle closer, before he colonized his periphery, before he smelled his breath, or felt it on his cheek.

Morse had an urge to step back, but the alcohol mixed with _Fred_ and stilled his feet. He didn’t so much look Ronnie Box in the eye as glare him down.

“We’ve history. I’ve experience,” Morse said coolly.

“Ah, that,” Box smirked. “But it’s less about what happened and more about what’s going to happen. Who actually has a future and all.”

“Enlighten me,” Morse sneered, tilting his head up to look Box fuller in the face.

Box’s lip curled but he didn’t say anything. Inches apart, Morse could still smell the smoke of Box’s burning cigarette. He could smell it on his breath. For a moment, Morse forgot to move and merely appraised him. Box stood, an eyebrow faintly raised, his gaze so steady Morse could reach out and lean on it. There was a flicker between his lips—his tongue.

Box’s mouth was on his too suddenly for it to make sense and so clumsily that Morse swayed. His stumble was halted with Box’s hands on his lapels, a rough grip that pulled him forward even as his mouth pushed him back hard. There was a sloppiness and desperateness to it. Like Box had the conviction to command, but wasn’t dexterous enough to manage any intricacies. Morse found himself, angling Box’s face with one hand, attempting to slow him even as he deepened the kiss. It wasn’t that Morse wanted to reassure him, more to pace him. Challenge him. This was a man so used to getting what he wanted it hardly occurred to him to ask for it. Slipping his tongue back, Morse sharply nipped Box’s lower lip, pulling a sharp gasp from the man.

They resurfaced, panting. Box’s hand still creased his shirt and Morse was surprised to see his other hand clenched onto Box’s biceps. He felt a flare of irritation at how hard and large they were, followed by a thrill down his lower back and into his groin at the feel of them. Irritation and indignation began anew—this time at himself—as he realized his own excitement. 

They both seemed to come to their senses at roughly the same moment. Their hands left the other, using their last moment of contact for momentum to shove the other away. This time Morse did stumble. Box lit another cigarette. Both were out of breath and ruddy, seemingly too stunned to speak.

They stared at each other again and Box made a noise at the back of his throat, between rapid puffs of his cigarette, somewhere between a scoff and a hum. As if he were saying, _Yeah, I could have figured you kissed like_ that _._ Morse fixed his hair and then straightened his shirt.

“You use too much tongue,” he heard himself primly rebuke before nodding, to Box, then the streetlamp, and staggering back inside.

**Author's Note:**

> while writing this i could not get out of my head that both of these idiots were probably jealous of thurday's attention (past/present) to the other. I just feel like they are super messy in a complementary way.


End file.
